


Favors

by celinamarniss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Age Difference, Character Study, F/M, Hatesex, I don't ship it, Imperial Culture, Sexual Coercion, Xenophobia, authority kink, consensual yet skeevy sexual situations, everyone in this fic comes to a bad end, lots of other kinks touched on, mara gets off on it, sex is power and power is power, the empire is a piece of shit, this is a fucked up pairing, thrawn chooses the empire, thrawn’s a manipulative bastard, xenophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celinamarniss/pseuds/celinamarniss
Summary: Two encounters, years apart, bring Grand Admiral Thrawn and the Emperor's Hand together in ways neither anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/gifts).



> The existence of this fic owes a great debt to evilmouse’s enthusiasm, cheerleading and beta work. 
> 
> Dialogue has been excerpted and remixed from Dark Force Rising. The original dialogue was written by Timothy Zahn, but probably owned by the mouse, no doubt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We met once, during the public dedication of the new Assemblage wing of the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. At that ceremony the Emperor introduced me to you as Lianna, one of his favorite dancers. Later, during the more private ceremony that followed, he revealed to you my true identity.”_   
>  _“And what was that private ceremony?”_   
>  _“Your secret promotion to the rank of Grand Admiral.”_
> 
>  
> 
> —Dark Force Rising, Timothy Zahn

The new Assemblage wing of the Imperial Palace was being hailed as a masterwork of Imperial architecture, a modern, cutting-edge design that broke from old Republic traditions while also carrying forth the principles of Palpatine’s New Order. It was being celebrated by all certified media sources and tickets and the public dedication was being called _the_ exclusive event of the season.

It was, in fact, an appalling structure, the architecture lacking any grace or music, the lines of the hall pedestrian and repetitive. The public dedication of the new Assemblage wing was a similarly lackluster affair, filled with interminable speeches about the glory of the Empire that dragged on and on.

The gala that followed spread out across the floor of the Assemblage wing, the speeches giving way to several performances while serving droids glided through the crowd, laden with delicacies and libations as the elite of Coruscant mingled underneath the uninspired arch of the ceiling.

Thrawn was, like everyone else in attendance, there to be seen; to shake hands with the right courtiers and be introduced to Moffs and sector representatives. It was all a matter of making a particular _impression._ His actual achievements carried very little weight, and the courtiers who attended these balls cared little of his actual opinion about the war. His victories were not publicized; the members of Palpatine’s court who ascribed to the doctrines of Human High Culture had done whatever they could to block his career. He was on display for those who wished to gawk at an _alien_ who had risen so auspiciously through the ranks of the Imperial Navy.

He should have been speaking to the emissaries from Kaut about the latest specs for hanger expansions on latest Star Destroyers designs.

Instead, he was watching a wispy dancing girl drifting through the crowd like a snow blossom caught in a gentle breeze. He had realized that he’d seen her earlier, performing with a troupe at the beginning of the festivities, a classical dance in the style of the Donitian movement.  

Her laugh floated over the crowd, a bubbly, artificial thing, as she plastered herself to Grand Moff Tanniel’s side. The Quelli sector Moff was the third high-ranking official that he’d seen in her company that evening; she had not, as one would expect, attached herself to any of the media celebrities or Coruscanti socialites. Grand Moff Gann, Grand Moff Kintaro, and now Grand Moff Tanniel—there was a pattern to her targets that, at least for now, remained beyond his grasp.

For a second, when she’d turned her head away from Tanniel, he’d caught an expression on her face—something sharper and more calculated than he expected in a vapid court hanger-on.

He would not have even noticed if he hadn’t already been watching her.

“Like that one, do you? She’s one of Palpatine’s dancers. One of his _favorites,_ they say.” Grand Admiral Rufaan Tigellinus, genial and charming as always, had offered his friendship when Thrawn had first entered Palpatine’s court.

“Dancing girls are one of the perks of rank. You know what I mean by _perks?”_

“I take your meaning, Tigellinus.” Earlier in his career, he might have feigned ignorance but he had less interest in playing the role of a naïve alien in front of Rufaan these days.

When he’d first arrived on Coruscant, his interpreters and handlers had explained, in broad strokes, how the intricacies of court intrigue worked; of the exchanges that took place behind closed doors and yet impacted the workings of the entire Empire. How patronage and leverage were bought and won and how Palpatine’s courtiers used their bodies and the bodies of their underlings to exchange favors and build influence.

“I haven’t had her—yet.” Rufaan’s ingratiating grin slid into a leer. “But you know how these _dancing_ girls are—I could tell some stories that would shock you.”

Thrawn doubted it.

“Lianna,” Rufaan called, and the girl detached herself from Tanniel and sashayed across the room. “Someone wants to meet you. Now don’t let his skin and funny eyes fool you, this man is an admiral in our Imperial Navy.”

She giggled, leaning on Rufaan’s arm as though she were further under the influence than Thrawn suspected she actually was. It was a clever performance, but one that Rufaan and the other members of the court were more than willing to buy.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lady Lianna.” He inclined his head, taking care to put stress on syllables in places a native speaker never would.

“A pleasure to meet _you,”_ she echoed back, the timbre of her voice a husky invitation. She was someone’s spy, he just hadn’t figured out which Moff she belonged to yet.

“You wouldn’t know it to look at him,” Rufaan said with the same conspiratorial joviality that rang utterly false, “but this fellow is one of our top men.”

“Really?” Lianna wrinkled her nose. “Him?”

Rufaan laughed. “Yes, him. Thrawn, why don’t you tell us about your little adventure in the Plon system?”

“Yes, tell us!” Lianna clapped her hands like a small child.

His victory in the Plon system had been one of the highlights of his Imperial career but he had little interest in discussing his achievements with _this_ particular audience. No telling where his words might travel, and whose ears.

“Another time, perhaps. I’m afraid I have to catch the Kuat Entourage before they retire for the evening. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” With a short bow, he moved briskly away from the pair. Let them assume that his abrupt departure was another characteristic of the poor breeding and unreliable behavior of non-humans.

He felt Lianna’s eyes on him as he made his way through the crowd, but by the time he looked back she was listening raptly to Rufaan, her arm wrapped around his.

When he finally had the Emperor’s ear, parties like these—where agents like the little dancer thrived—would cease to exist. He’d wipe these vile cesspits from his court. The flirting and preening of the courtiers was all irrelevant in the face of _true_ power: the power of the Circle of Twelve.

That very night he was to be inducted into their order.

The ceremony was a private one, attended only by the members of the Twelve and the Imperial Council, and a few other select agents of the Empire. Palpatine adored his secret courts. The man had a mind like a pit spider, cultivating rings of power around him, whose influence across the wider galaxy was discernible only to himself.

Unlike the Assemblage hall, the space where the ceremony took place was a remnant of Republic architecture, a small ballroom that had been converted into a throne room by the addition of a dais at one end. The opulence of the Old Republic was still on display in the fluted columns that swept to the ceiling, accentuated with gold leafing and elaborately sculpted capitals. The deep red walls were partially obscured by the long banners bearing the Imperial crest. The crimson-robed Royal Guards who stood behind the Emperor and along the walls of the ballroom added to the glory of the occasion.

The Emperor, draped in his customary black robes, sat on a throne carved out of obsidian on the dais at the head of the room, his entire being radiating a sense of unassailable power as he observed his court below.  Lord Vader was absent, deployed to the front lines, and in his absence Sate Pestage presided over the court at the Emperor’s right hand.

To Pestage’s right stood Lianna.

She no longer wore a gauzy white dancer’s dress, but an elegant white sleeveless gown that fell to her toes. The long red hair that had once fallen loose was now pulled into a tight butterfly bun at the back of her head, in a style that reminded him of the holos he’d seen of powerful senators of the Old Republic, and made her seem more severe—older than she was. Sheer white gloves covered her arms to above her elbow and the curling gold and blue filigree of a Xyquine shoulder-sculp wrapped around her left shoulder. The only other jewelry she wore was a set of earrings made of delicate threads of silver that hung like a pair of waterfalls, nearly long enough to brush her shoulders.

He’d been correct to mark her as a spy, though he hadn’t ascertained whether her presence at his induction was significant or merely ornamental. He didn’t have the time to dwell upon it, as he strode up the few steps of the dais to stand before Palpatine.

A feeling of victory swelled as the Emperor pinned the Grand Admiral’s rank insignia to the plain grey fabric of his uniform. His promotion to Grand Admiral granted him a seat on the Circle of Twelve, the exclusive cadre of Grand Admirals who ran the Empire. Behind him the Grand Admirals stood in a neat white row and near the end of the ceremony he took his place among them, standing in between the Emperor and the Imperial Council, who stood in a disorderly group in their esoteric robes and headpieces.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the Emperor retired, leaving the gathering to mingle and enjoy the expensive Chandrillian wine circulated by serving droids. Thrawn endured the stiff congratulations of his fellow officers, accepted and drank a glass of wine, and engaged Grand Admiral Declann in a short conversation on the merits of the new line of TIE interceptors. He’d only just excused himself from the conversation with Grand Admiral Declann when Lianna appeared before him.

“Mara Jade,” she said, extending her hand regally. “The Emperor’s Hand. Congratulations, _Grand Admiral_ Thrawn.”

She was indeed Palpatine’s creature.

He could imagine what his handlers would say: it was in his interest to cultivate a connection with one of Palpatine's shadow agents, particularly one currently in the Emperor’s favor, who stood at his right hand. Her dossier would have been sealed to him as a mere admiral, but now with the privileges of the Twelve, he could investigate exactly how deep the influence of an Emperor’s Hand ran.

He pressed the proffered fingers firmly between his own, noting the quick flick of her eyes down at his bare hands. At least it suggested curiosity, not repulsion, and not the scorn she’d openly displayed when she was playing the role of a court dancing girl. If it was repulsion, she hid it well.

“The Emperor’s Hand is a title I am not familiar with,” he said.

“I carry out my Emperor’s will.” The smile on her face was entirely unlike the vapid expression she had worn as Lianna. “When he speaks to me, I hear his voice. Anywhere.”

She was not speaking metaphorically; he’d heard the rumors that Palpatine’s agents had extrasensory abilities, as incredible as they sounded. An agent with that sort of power was a dangerous resource, and the arrogance and fanaticism of Palpatine’s devotees was a minefield of its own.

He gave her a shallow bow. “Then I am at your service, madame.”

“The Emperor was impressed with the reports on your actions during the Plon engagement. I was disappointed not to hear your version of the story.” The arch tone of her voice was an exact replica of a certain type of Coruscanti socialite who dripped money and entertained herself by spreading rumors and lies.

“I apologize. Grand Admiral Tigellinus had heard the story before and I didn’t wish to bore either of you.”  

She glanced away, her gaze distant as she took a sip of her wine. “Is Grand Admiral Tigellinus a close friend?”

“Grand Admiral Tigellinus is a charming man,” he said flatly. Her eyes flicked back to him; he had her attention again. “His skill in the political area is… admirable.”  

“He seems to like you.”

“I appreciate having an ally at court,” he said carefully. “I’m new to the court; new to these celebrations. Having an ally who can make introductions is invaluable.” Rufaan must have known Lianna’s true identity when he had introduced her at the dedication gala, and he had made no indication.

Her upper lip curled. “Grand Admiral Tigellinus is going to find his next assignment doesn’t offer much time for parties.”

Ah. He was very glad indeed to have made her acquaintance.  

“How unfortunate.” That earned him a smirk. “I hope that doesn’t mean that we’ll be deprived of _your_ presence at the next gala, Lady Jade.”

She took the bait.

“You don’t know, do you?” The arch tone returned, the corner of her mouth curving up. Not for the first time, he felt like a dejarik piece in a game with rules that had been hidden from him.

“I am afraid I do not.” He didn’t care for being played with, either by Palpatine or by one of his toys.

“The Emperor’s already signed your orders. You’re being sent on a cartography mission to the Unknown Regions. Effective immediately.”

Anger flared through him with an incendiary brightness. _Cartography missions_ were tantamount to exile. Any commanding officer sent on a cartography mission was cut off from the wider galaxy,  deprived of participating in the war and advancing their career through military victories. At such a distance, he would be unable to influence any decisions made at the heart of the Empire. He had become irrelevant.

His victories at Plon and Sulon, the mission on Naboo—they meant nothing. His ascension to the highest military rank in the Empire had been a waste; the triumph of the evening soured in his gut.

It was meant to humiliate him, to make it seem as though he’d risen only to fall from favor, and to put him—an alien, an outsider—in his place. He could see the hand of Tigellinus, Disra, and the other members of the Twelve who were openly or secretly devotees of Human High Culture in the set-up, and he could imagine the smug self-congratulations that would commence after he had been banished.

This night had been their coup, not his.

Although he was certain that none of that emotion showed on his face, he felt her lean away almost imperceptibly, a quickly shuttered expression of wariness crossing her face as though she’d sensed his rage the moment he’d heard the secret she’d let slip. So the rumors were not entirely false.

He stepped closer, his voice low, clipped with fury. “Was Grand Admiral Disra—”

“Miss Jade!” Grand Admiral Tikel stepped close, slipping a hand to her waist.

Lianna the dancing girl would have responded with a sparkling smile, and perhaps the invitation for more. Mara Jade, the Emperor’s Hand, gave the admiral a cold stare. It was a luxury that he envied her.

“Tikel.” It would have frozen another man in his tracks, but Tikel had already had far too much wine, as well as his usual dose of glitterstim, from the looks of it.

“I bet you thought she was an actual dancing girl, didn’t you?” Tikel said with a greasy chuckle. “Miss Jade’s much more than _that.”_

If violence had been the answer to the situation, he would have struck the other man across the mouth without hesitation. There were far too many eyes here, and Tikel was only a minor distraction.

“Grand Admiral Tikel.” He cut across whatever proposition was tumbling out of the man’s mouth. “I have things to discuss with Lady Jade. Privately.”

With a firm grip on her elbow, he whisked her away from Tikel’s wandering hands and headed briskly across the floor, away from the scattered groups of conversation that dotted the room. He did not care what they thought of him.

She tugged at his grasp, and for a moment he thought she was trying to break free before he realized that she was directing him toward one of the small alcoves on the edge of the ballroom. The alcoves were designed to offer privacy for more sensitive meetings between courtiers that took place during gatherings. There was a lushly padded bench against the far wall of the alcove, and heavy curtains lined the entrance, obscuring the view inside and muffling any conversation within. He didn’t draw the curtains shut behind them as he turned to face the young woman he’d just pulled into the tiny space.

“A woman such as yourself does not deserve to be subjected to the vulgar attention of Admiral Tikel.”

They stood for a moment, facing each other, his hand still wrapped around her elbow. Instead of dropping her elbow, he let his hand slide down her arm, lingering at her wrist before he let go. Her eyes followed the movement, then darted up to his own, which he knew many humans found unsettling.

She stepped fully in front of him and let a coy smile slide across her face. “I don’t want to talk about Admiral Tikel,” she said, her eyes hooded.

He remained still as she lifted a gloved hand to brush his cheek, watching her eyes as they tracked across his features.

“Does the color of my skin bother you?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, the response too quick and practiced.

As if to prove her words she lifted his hand to her face, pressing it to her mouth, her tongue darting out to trace the knuckles. Her eyes locked on his face as she uncurled his first two fingers, slid them between her lips. It didn’t matter that the whole gesture felt calculated, the wet heat of her mouth sliding down the length of his finger made his length jerk and throb in his pants.

She was offering him the sort of court favors that Rufaan had implied and TIkel had taken for granted; what was expected of an Imperial courtier. He could have her here, on her knees, or on the bench or floor—meters from where Palpatine’s sycophants still gathered, the murmur of their conversation barely audible beyond the curtained alcove.

Taking her would not change his fate—the trap that Admiral Dira and the others had set was already sprung, and once the Emperor had made up his mind it was dangerous to contradict him. Perhaps the Grand Admirals would see it as another example of alien arrogance as they laughed at his downfall.

They would learn to regret that they had crossed him.

He drew his hand from her mouth, letting his fingers linger on her lips for a second, so that he could wrap his hand around the back of her neck and pull her towards him, backing her up against the alcove wall.

Like her earlier advances, her kiss spoke of _training,_ of a practiced enthusiasm that he was certain she did not feel. The small sound of surprise she made as he broke the kiss and stepped back shot through him in a way that her lips against his had not.

“What—?”

He held up a hand. “Let me look at you.”

The pink tint that colored her cheeks pleased him as he took her in, let his eyes rove over the slender lines of her body draped in elegant white fabric. By the stiffness of her posture, he could tell she was fighting the urge to squirm under his gaze. Despite her training and skill, he suspected that she wasn’t as experienced as she let on.

He slipped his finger under the edge of the shoulder sculp, letting it brush against the bare skin above the single strap of her gown as he searched for the clasp. It released with a quiet _snick_. He cupped the sculp in one hand, lifting it away from her shoulder and tossing it onto the bench.

Her eyes darted toward the entrance. He doubted she would face any consequences if they were discovered—the damage to his reputation was another matter—but the idea excited her, _aroused_ her. He might not have her erotic training, but he was certain that his experience outstripped hers.

The strap gave way with a single tug and the top of her gown slid down, revealing her breasts. The exposure triggered a pilomotor reflex, raising subtle impressions across her skin—a human reaction that never ceased to fascinate him. Her skin so pale it was translucent in places, veins showing blue beneath the surface at her wrists and elbows. Human skin was so thin and fragile; it tore easily. He ran his fingers lightly across the subtle texture, tracing a path up her arm to the tip of a rosy nipple, applying the lightest pressure and making a pleased sound as she arched into his touch.  

He stepped back to look at her again. Her breasts were small but well-formed, and she responded beautifully as he lightly stroked the back of his hand over the stiff, rosy tips.

“Lift your dress.”

The tint in her cheeks deepened and she complied, reaching down to slide her gown up her legs, until the skirt was bunched into fists on either side of her hip bones, exposing dark red curls.

“Very good,” he crooned, watching her eyes flare at the praise.

He let his hand slide over the soft skin of her inner thigh, tracing the blue veins visible through her pale skin, like a map that led to the juncture of her thighs. She offered no resistance as he pressed his fingers between her legs. Despite the hue of her skin and the strange texture of her hair, human women were much the same as Chiss women, soft and wet and sensitive to his touch. Stroking and probing delicately, the effect was more than satisfactory. She melted against the wall, a series of whimpers escalating into soft, needy cries of pleasure that she bit back until the skin at her lips turned white.

Her hands shot out and fisted in the dark fabric of his dress uniform as he curled his fingers inside of her. “Unnhhh…please... _please_...” His shaft twitched at each breathy plea and he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

She made a confused, disgruntled sound as he pulled his hand away. “Wha...No…”

“Patience,” he said and she went quiet, eyes wide and chest heaving. Pushing her hands away, he unfastened his belt, letting it slide slowly from his fingers onto the bench beside them. He was exquisitely hard. Her hand darted out and he swallowed a groan as her glove slid across his shaft. He thrust into her hand a few times—pleasure jolting up his spine—before recovering himself and yanking her hand away.

She was thrown off-balance again, looking to him in confusion. The hem of her gown had slipped down to her ankles and she pulled it up so he could hook a hand under her thigh and spread her wide. She gasped, hands flying up to grip his shoulders as he pushed her up against the wall and into her. Her fingers dug into the heavy fabric at his back and she let out a cracked cry as he began to move.

He’d paid little attention to the muted conversation in the background, but a pair of voices drifted closer to the alcove and she froze, head twisting around to the entryway. That wouldn’t do at all. He thrust hard, pinching a nipple which earned him a choked-back shriek. She buried her face in his shoulder, biting down to muffle any further cries, pliant once more. He didn’t care who stood outside the alcove—let them hear him pounding Palpatine’s spy into the wall.

All of his patience was gone. The world narrowed to the heat of her around him, the muffled sound of her moans as he continued to thrust relentlessly into her. He’d _earned_ his victory tonight, he’d earned _this—_

He bit down on his lower lip to stifle his own cry as he spilled inside of her. She came moments later, the seize of her around him almost uncomfortable as his orgasm began to fade. He let go of her to brace a hand against the wall while he struggled to wrench back control of his body. She slid sideways onto the bench, shoulders heaving, half hunched as she sat trying to catch her breath. Her breasts were still exposed, her dress askew, a dazed look on her face. Even so, her head swiveled to the entryway, wary. There was no one in sight; the conversation had moved away again.

It only took a couple of moments for him to straighten up, his uniform secure once more, belt fastened with a snap. Tucking his hands behind his back, he stood by the entryway and watched her struggle with the strap of her gown.

She gave him an impatient shrug. “Go on. We shouldn’t be seen leaving together.”

“Very well.” Another shallow bow. “Thank you for the evening, Lady Jade.”

She would find her own way out. He strolled back into the ballroom as though he’d just stepped aside for a breath of fresh air and paused, considering his next line of attack. He would speak with Imperial Advisor Pradeux, first, before approaching Pestage.  

There was work to do.

When he glanced back at the alcove, she was gone.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wookieepedia places Thrawn’s promotion in 2 ABY, but for the purposes of this fic, I’m placing it solidly in 3 ABY, the year the events of The Empire Strikes Back took place. Mara is about 20-21 years old, and Thrawn is probably in his mid to late forties. I might have fudged some details along with the dates.
> 
> For those interested, the dress Mara wears for Thrawn’s ceremony is the Tom Ford dress Gwyneth Paltrow wore to the 2013 oscars, sadly without the cape. The cape would have been perfect for Star Wars, but the story dictates she had to wear the shoulder-sculp instead. I’m not imagining the design used for the shoulder-sculp in the comics (it’s ugly and doesn’t look at all like the book described) but something closer to the bracelet Leia wears in Truce at Bakura.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Come closer, Mara Jade.”_  
>  _The voice was rich with the overtones of command, and Mara found herself walking toward him before she realized what she was doing._  
>  —Dark Force Rising, Timothy Zahn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two takes place during chapter 17 of Dark Force Rising (five years after the battle of Endor). Mara now works for smuggling chief Talon Karrde. She’s captured by Imperials, pulls rank, and is granted an audience with Grand Admiral Thrawn. They’re both dicks to each other; it’s great. Their conversation has been remixed in this version.

The test was over; the holographic shoulder sculps that Thrawn had used to test her memory melted away into the darkness that cloaked the corners of the cavernous command room. The implied threats he’d made still hung air around them in the silence the stretched out as she waited for his response. 

Why was he pretending he didn’t know who she was? Bastard. 

The pristine fabric of the Grand Admiral’s uniform he wore was luminous in the low light of his command room, his black boots polished to shine like Malachorian obsidian. Hands encased in white leather gloves were laced in front of him, elbows propped on wide armrests that comprising an entire control board at his fingertips. A ysalamiri frame was strapped to the back of the angular chair which dominated the room, stripped bare of anything else except the double ring of holoprojectors that circled the massive chair. 

All precisely crafted to make her straighten in deference to a superior officer, with the sour tug of longing that came with recalling the life that had been lost to her. The precision of his wardrobe made her aware that her own flight suit was worn and grubby, her boots scuffed and caked in a layer of Rishi mud. Her left wrist felt naked without her holdout. She had been something once, and standing before him she was nothing. 

Stagecraft. Bastard. 

“Welcome back, Emperor’s Hand. You’ve been a long time returning.” The pause that followed seem to push down her throat, choking her. 

“What was here for me before?” Her mouth was dry; there was something buzzing through her head that made it hard to focus. It was this blasted place— “There was no one left who would recognise me. Who but a Grand Admiral would have accepted me as legitimate?” 

She thought he’d died in the Unknown Regions—that was what one was expected to do when one was assigned a cartography mission—die honorably defending the Empire’s borders from whatever lurked at the edges of civilized space, out of sight and mind. 

“Was that the only reason?” 

She could send the trip wire under the simple question. 

“There were other reasons,” she said shortly. “None of which I wish to discuss at this time.” 

The simmering red of his eyes bored into her. 

“Not good enough, Emperor’s Hand.” 

She raised her chin. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Was that her voice? It sounded tinny, desperate. “I was the _Emperor’s Hand._ I spoke for him … and even Grand Admirals were obliged to listen.” 

“Really.” She wanted to wipe that smug smile off of his goddamned face. “Your memory serves you poorly, Emperor’s Hand. When all is said and done, you were little more than a highly specialized courier.” 

Bastard. 

“Perhaps it is your memory that needs refreshing, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” she retorted. Back then, he would have never  _ dared _ to speak to her like that. “I traveled throughout the Empire in his name, making policy decisions that changed lives at the highest levels of government—” 

“You carried out his will,” Thrawn cut her off sharply. “No more. Whether you heard his commands more clearly than the rest of his Hands is irrelevant. They were still his decisions that you implemented.” 

No. He was lying. There were no other Hands. The Emperor had given the title to  _ her.  _

“What do you mean, the rest of his Hands? I was the only—” 

It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. How _ dare he _ —what the fuck was he playing at? 

“No. No. You’re wrong.” She didn’t believe a fucking word out of his mouth, the red-eyed  _ freak. _

The bastard shrugged. “Believe what you wish. But don’t attempt to blind others with exaggerated memories of your own importance. What can a  _ courier _ offer  _ my _ Empire?” 

“I can still be of service to the Empire.”  _ His _ empire. She could  _ prove _ she was more than a courier, she knew she could—if only that damn hum in her head would stop for a second. “You know what I did for the Emperor.” It was hard to think. “You know how I served him. I  _ killed _ for him.”

A raised eyebrow. “We’ve all taken lives for our masters. I have any number of soldiers who would kill for me now.” 

No. She had been more than that. “I—I was devoted to him—to the Empire.”  

“You were then. Things have obviously changed. What assurances do I have that your loyalty is not divided?” 

“I cooperated with your people—I came to  _ you.” _ A year too late. “I came to serve you.” 

He let the silence stretch out again as he considered, face still void of expression. He was toying with her. She resisted the urge to fill the space with appeals to his mercy; bit down on the side of her mouth. 

“I could have use for an agent with your particular talents,” he said slowly. Making a show out of his decision. “But only one that can show me the same loyalty she showed to her Emperor.” 

“Of course—” The lie rasped out of her throat. “I’ll swear allegiance.” 

“There are other ways to prove one’s loyalty,” he said, his voice like an oil slick. 

It felt like she was fumbling to follow the thread of his meaning through the buzz in her head, the implications slithering away from her. 

“To me. Exclusively.” 

“To you?” The meaning clarified in an acute instant—she recalled the close press of him against her, the strange sharp smell of his body, his touch between her legs. 

Her hand in a glove of the finest Abridon lace, trailing down to rest on the grey fabric that covered his chest, opposite the shining rank insignia. 

Court favors. 

The fringe wasn’t so different, although Karrde—Karrde had never asked her for this. Swore he never would. 

He tilted his head. “Well, Emperor’s Hand?” 

“I’ll take your orders,” she said, soft and slow. 

She knew how court favors worked. She could do this. 

“Good,” he said, his voice a low rumble that carried across the room and tugged at her core. He lapsed into silence again, motionless, just looking at her—he had liked looking at her. 

They’d already stripped her of her weapons. Her hands moved to unfasten her flight suit, rolling it down her shoulders. He was watching her closely, hands still folded neatly in front of him, as she peeled off her undershirt and then pushed the flight suit and her underwear down past her hips, skin prickling in the cold air. 

She crouched to remove her boots and stayed low as she set them aside and folded her flight suit carefully next to them. Like a good soldier. Waiting for orders. Kept her eyes down as he shifted in his seat, the white gloves unfastening his belt and folding back his jacket before going to his pants and releasing his half-hard cock. His left hand returned to rest indolently against the arms of his chair, his right gestured her forward with a single flick. 

The floor was icy under her bare feet as she stepped up onto the inner display ring, the cold seeping up her legs as her knees dug into the metal when she shifted her weight onto them, positioning herself between his spread knees. 

The unsettling hum in her head melted away. 

She stroked up his shaft with her tongue, coaxing it into full hardness before she eased the length in to her mouth and began to suck. It had flushed dark purple as it strained upwards, the blue of his skin a striking contrast to the white of his uniform. She felt him rest his hand on top of her head—not grasping or directing, but holding her in place, reminding her of  _ his place _ above her. The weight of it grounding her. 

Nothing mattered now but the feel of his cock in her mouth, the thudding of her pulse and the pull between her legs. 

Breathing carefully, she took him deeper. It earned her a rough exhale, the trace of a groan. She pulled back only when he began to rock his hips up into her mouth, adjusting to his rhythm as he slid wetly between her lips. Her head bobbed as she sucked up and down his shaft, keeping pace with the thrust of his hips. 

Abruptly his hand slid to the back of her head, fingers digging into her hair and pulling her off his cock. She rocked back on her knees, her face jerked upward, her mouth still hanging open, lips wet and flushed. 

She clamped down on the shudder that threatened to rush over her; kept her eyes up. His face was still the same impenetrable mask, his eyes burning down at her, though his chest rose and fell with deep unsteady breaths. Not entirely a fucking statue. 

She wondered if he going to come on her face—then send her back to her quarters with that torturous ache still pulsing between her legs. She pictured herself in the empty officer’s quarters, shoving her hand down her pants, frantically fingering her cunt until that sweet release snapped through her and then faded away. 

“Sir?” Her voice was a rough rasp in the quiet of the room. 

He let go of her head. “Stand,” he ordered, and when she’d complied, leaned forward and tapped her hip. She turned around, facing away from him. 

He’d activated the holoprojector again, and the dark room around them was illuminated by shimmering lights that shifted from color to color in soft patterns like an aurora borealis against the night sky. Her breath caught as shades of pink bloomed in the air in front of her. It had been years since she’d seen an actual Felucian lumen sculpture. Of course Thrawn had one in his collection. 

He hadn’t even been looking at her while she’d had his cock down her throat. 

Like she was irrelevant; only a vessel for his body’s pleasure. Heat rushed up her chest and neck, her face growing hot. Her clit throbbed. She turned her head slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush across her neck and shoulder from his viewpoint behind her, but she knew it was a futile gesture. He noticed everything. 

She felt the his fingertips brush the small of her back and then gloved hands glided across her skin to wrap firmly around her hips as he guided her backwards. This time she couldn’t suppress the shiver that shot through her. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. 

She hadn’t forgotten how good he felt inside her. She hadn’t forgotten him at all. 

He positioned her above him, her legs straddling his, bare toes digging into the cold steel of the chair. She braced against his thighs, her hands grasping the heavy white fabric as she worked herself down onto his cock. A moan broke loose from her throat, and she flinched at the needy sound, feeling the flush returning to her skin. 

The hands at her hips set a languid pace as she rose and sunk down on him, over and over. After a few strokes, he pulled her against him, his uniform stiff against her back, rank insignia biting into her shoulder. A hand lifted from her hips, tracing up her ribcage and lingering at her breast. She pressed into his touch, and he indulged her at first, his fingers teasing, sending jolts of sensation to her core—and then moved on, hand skating up her sternum. 

A reedy wail pulled out of her as his hand encircled her neck. Like how he’d rested his hand on the top of her head while she’d sucked his cock, he didn’t tighten his grip, just let the weight rest against her throat, the implicit threat enough. 

His hand shifted up to the line of her jaw and his thumb pressed against her lips until she greedily sucked it in, tasting leather on her tongue. He hissed something that she couldn’t comprehend—couldn’t tell if it was in his language or hers. She was vaguely aware that his breath was growing ragged behind her, his upward thrusts irregular. He pulled her tight against him, hips rutting up into her cunt—his other hand snaking down to press on hard on her clit. 

Everything splintered away in the bright stab of pleasure that shot through her, her body jerking in his grip. The spasms hadn’t faded when she felt him coming, the twitch of his cock in her cunt triggering aftershocks that shivered through her. 

She was limp, shaking—head weightless and blissfully blank. She tried to focus on the glimmering azure haze that drifted in front of her, waves of colored light rippling and reforming. Her body felt leaden, as though she could sink right through the floor. Everything drained out of her. 

“Well done, Emperor’s Hand,” his voice rumbled behind her. 

A dismissal. 

She felt him slip wetly out of her as she climbed off of his lap and stumbled over to her clothes, muzzy and sex-stupid. Underclothing. Flight suit. Boots. She touched her wrist, longing for her holdout. 

While she’d been dressing he’d returned to his usual position, leaning back in his chair, hands folded in front of him, immaculate white uniform unsoiled. The shimmering color of the lumen sculpture had vanished. 

“Your show of loyalty pleases me, Emperor’s Hand.” 

Her head was fuzzy through the brief negotiations that followed, if one could call them that. A handful of empty promises fell clumsily from her mouth. She hadn’t betrayed Karrde’s confidence, but had she managed to deflect Thrawn’s attention? She doubted it. The maddening hum was back, echoing through her head. 

He glanced down at the controls at at his elbow; touched a button. “You will be escorted back to the  _ Adamant. _ Collect your things and wait for orders from Captain Pellaeon.” 

“Thank you,” she managed. Like hell she would. As soon as she was on the  _ Adamant  _ she’d pull rank again and demand clearance to leave on the  _ Etherway. _ She would be gone before  _ Adamant’s _ commander realized his mistake. 

“Afterward,” he continued, “we’ll sit down and have a long talk together. About your years away from Imperial service … and why you’ve been so long in returning.”

Sure they would.  

Fuck him. _ Fuck  _ him. 

“You may go.” 

He wasn’t even looking at her. A holomap of the Endor system materialized around her, the glow of the gas planet over her shoulder, the debris field spiraling out across the room. Bits of holographic debris dissolved and reformed behind her as she walked through the room toward the doors, skirting the chair that sat at the heart of it. The new power at the center of the Empire. 

He let her go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Dark Force Rising, Mara tells Thrawn that Karrde knows the location of the Katana Fleet in order to buy her freedom (and lift the death mark on Karrde’s people). In this story, she’s offered another option and doesn’t betray Karrde’s trust. Thrawn already has intelligence about the Katana Fleet, so it’s likely that it doesn’t matter much in terms of the overall plot. Thrawn still tracks Mara’s ship captures Karrde because he’s a tool, and he doesn’t trust Mara for a second.


End file.
